Peter’s granny lived in an old tenement in Mill Street. She kept a jar full of lovely sticky sweeties, and she spoilt him outrageously, so he loved going to see her.
‘Ach, he’s only a bairn, Mary,’ she would say when his mother scolded him for doing something he shouldn’t.
The only thing he didn’t like about Mill Street was Aul’ Babbie, who lived on the ground floor of the same tenement as his granny. He was terrified of Aul’ Babbie. She was very old - over a hundred, Peter thought - but that wasn’t what scared him. She had a hooked nose, a long, pointed chin and straight, straggly hair. She was the personification of all the pictures of witches he had ever seen. Her face wasn’t green, of course, but when she opened her mouth you could see her two broken teeth. No more, just the two broken teeth.
The children of Mill Street liked to torment her. When they played hide and seek, they would hide in the dark lobby outside her door, and run away laughing if she came out to see who was making a noise. She usually did.
‘Get awa’ oot o’ here!’ she would shout, ‘an’ leave an aul’ body in peace.’
They would shout back, knowing that she was too crippled to chase them, and she usually went back inside her house and slammed her door. Peter joined in their games when he was visiting his granny, and would shout as loud as the rest of them when Aul’ Babbie was on the warpath.
‘Ye young hooligans!’ she was liable to shout at them. ‘Ah’d murder the lot o’ ye if Ah got ma han’s on ye.’
‘Canna catch me, canna catch me, Aul’ Babbie canna catch me,’ they would chant, and take to their heels.
‘Ah ken fine fa ye are,’ she would cry and shake her stick at them. ‘Ah’ll tell yer ma’s on ye. An’ you, Peter Ritchie, Ah’ll tell yer granny.’
The children knew that she never carried out her threats, but Peter had a huge worry of his own. What if Aul’ Babbie lay in wait for him in that dark lobby? She could grab him as he passed to go upstairs to his granny’s house. She could take him inside and torture him to pay him back for all the times he had annoyed her. She might even murder him and nobody would ever know what had happened to him.
‘I wish the old witch was dead,’ he whispered to himself. But witches never die.
When Hogmanay came round with all its festivities, Peter was staying with his granny. He wasn’t allowed to see in the New Year, but he didn’t mind that, because there were always some ‘first-fitters’ who came later on through New Year’s Day.
In the afternoon, there were about five extra people in the house when another knock was heard. Peter rushed to answer the door, ready to shout ‘Happy New Year’ to whoever might be there. The words froze on his lips when he saw Aul’ Babbie standing on the landing. She made her way past him, surely more unsteady on her feet than usual. He closed the door and slowly followed her into his granny’s kitchen.
He couldn’t believe his eyes. Aul’ Babbie was laughing and joking with the other folk. He had never heard her laughing before and noticed that it was more of a cackle than a laugh.
Definitely a witch’s laugh. More convinced than ever, he sat down close beside his mother and silently prayed that Aul’ Babbie wouldn’t stay long.
Surprisingly, his prayer was answered. She stayed only long enough to get a dram and a piece of his granny’s home-made black bun, then rose to go. As she passed him, he saw, with horror, her bony hand coming out to touch him. He closed his eyes tightly and gripped the side of his chair.
She merely patted him on the head. ‘That’s a richt fine laddie ye’ve got, Mary,’ she said to his mother. Peter let his breath out slowly and opened his eyes to see the old woman hobbling to the door.
His granny had just come back from seeing Aul’ Babbie out when they heard a great thump and a rumbling noise.
‘The drunk aul’ fool has fa’en doon the stair,’ said Mr Duff, who lived across the landing.
They all ran out to see if she was hurt, leaving Peter by himself. He felt too numb with horror to move. If she was dead, it would be his fault for wishing her dead, he thought. She would know he was to blame and she’d come back to haunt him. By the time they all came back, he had worked himself into a terrible state.
He looked at their faces, trying to read the answer to his unspoken question. ‘Is she … dead?’ he managed to ask, at last.
‘Na, na, laddie,’ his granny assured him, ‘but she fell fae the top step richt doon to the next landin’. Poor aul’ sowl. As if ha’in’ a wooden leg wasna bad enough, noo she’s broke her good ane.’
Peter gaped at her. ‘What did you say, Granny? About a wooden leg?’
‘Mercy me, bairn. Did ye nae ken she had a wooden leg?’
The boy’s spirits lifted as he realised what this information meant to him. Never again need he be scared at Aul’ Babbie. She was just an ordinary old woman after all.
Whoever had heard of a witch with a wooden leg?
***
Word count: 929.
Published in the Kincardineshire Observer, 14 April 1972
Written at the end of 1971 and sent to at least three magazines. I can’t remember which, but it was rejected pretty quickly each time. Then I took a chance and sent it to a weekly newspaper printed out of Aberdeen. It was not a ‘freebie’ (it cost 2d per week), and published news local to its area, and this being my husband’s birthplace, we had it delivered. I had noticed that it always included a very short story, and I felt that The Witch was as good as any of them.
I got a phone call saying that they bought all their stories from other publications and could only offer me £1 for it, although it was better than the stories they usually printed. It wasn’t what I had expected, but what the heck? At least it was a payment and it would be printed.